


Unmasked, And Being Seen

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Just Some Fluff For the Holidays, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 08:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: Vision blurred and unfocused he came into consciousness, as if from broken fragments of night terrors and echoes of flitting thoughts that shakily patched his memory. Stuttering into awareness he was hazed by spots that coloured monochrome his vision, a hoarseness deep in the back of his throat, and a dizzying headache that shot ripples of throbbing electrocution from his temples, branching down his neck and radiating down his spine. Fragments of recollections clogged his thoughts but wipe clean away by the soft light that shone blood red through the thin petals of his eyelids.***Melkor finds Mairon after his defeat at Tol Sirion.





	Unmasked, And Being Seen

I cry your mercy- pity- love! --Aye, love!

(Poem by John Keats)

***

I cry your mercy- pity- love! --Aye, love!

Merciful love that tantilizes not,

One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,

Unmasked, and being seen- without a blot!

O! let me have thee whole- all, all- be mine!

That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest

Of love, your kiss- those hands, those eyes divine,

That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,

Yourself- your soul- in pity give me all,

Withhold no atom’s atom or I die

Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,

Forget, in the midst of idle misery,

Life’s purposes- the palate of my mind

Losing its gust- and my ambition blind!

***

Vision blurred and unfocused he came into consciousness, as if from broken fragments of night terrors and echoes of flitting thoughts that shakily patched his memory. Stuttering into awareness he was hazed by spots that coloured monochrome his vision, a hoarseness deep in the back of his throat, and a dizzying headache that shot ripples of throbbing electrocution from his temples, branching down his neck and radiating down his spine. Fragments of recollections clogged his thoughts but wipe clean away by the soft light that shone blood red through the thin petals of his eyelids.

He blearily opened them, chasing the stimulation of the light in alternative to his fleeting memories, only to close them immediately with a raw hiss as the soft resplendence lanced an intense glare and burned his watery eyes with a dull, holy sting that pulsed his sockets. Blond lashes fluttered over ashen cheeks, freckles darker gold and slicked in sweat. But by far it was his throat that hurt him, a grating soreness down the strained column of his slender neck: like swallowing torrents of jagged granules or shards of fine glass. His tongue stuck dry to his mouth in foul, parched taste, his ligaments torn so his head rested weakly, unsupported. And so he lay there limply, eyes shut tight to the harsh illumination, thoughts racing and his throat quivering as if roughed by sandpaper.

He noticed, however, that he was pressed into something soft and plush, and this tranquil comfort was not the thick coat of a wolf, nor the cold hard dirt of a den in which he had lain for awhile with the remnants of his pack of wolves. Nor could he hear the pelting patter of half-frozen rain- he was not outside of Taur-in-Gaurhoth, nor Taur-nu-Fuin. Feather pillows propped up his lax head in support, saving his neck some strain and the column of his throat was tightly bandaged to quell the bleeding. And the light, it seemed, became more bearable with the knowledge that the sheets smelled so much like _Him._

Mairon again attempted to open his eyes, his lashes stitching a lattice at the tops of his vision from half-lidded carnelian, heavily weighted with a shivering pain and a scraped gullet. He finds that he is sitting up in a large bed, surrounded by clusters of black pillows and bolsters embroidered in gold the mythos of Urulóki. The velvet curtains fall a heavy indigo against the ebony bed posts, like the night sky folded, and there is a blazing fire in the hearth for warmth in the room carved of black rock: and Mairon knows that he is in Melkor’s chambers.

And he finds Melkor, looming at his side as if to linger, peering down at him like a healer with His patient- a neutral expression carefully carved like a mask, the perfection of stoic symmetry that sends shivers down Mairon’s spine, a tingling numbness like needles from working too long in the forge. His lips were smoothed with a tight frown and thin creases framed them. His brows are knotted- furrowed not in any passion but in mild observation- and a gaze of cool detachment alights His eyes, clouded arctic with blindness.

This distance struck Mairon like a slap, his head turning away in visceral reaction to the absence of their typical mutual ease. His neck kinked in pain at this sudden turn and stabbing bolts shot to his clamped jaw. Melkor’s aloofness broke like frost in sun and washed away the detachment in His eyes at this display of pain, but Mairon did not see it, for he looked away in a burning shame, tears pricking again from pain he felt much deserved, the knowledge of his failure hanging heavy between them: the cowardice of his hiding.

His headache moved deeper, drilling into the back of his skull and twisted his golden Fëa a sickly jaundice. He let his eyes brim full with tears, emboldened himself to look back at his Master and his failure. Melkor looked down at him still, but His face was blurred ivory and it was difficult to meet His milky eyes without the light of the Silmarils piercing through the weakened mantle of his Fána to the struggling flames of his Fëa. But yet, even in their blurriness, Mairon could see.

Stomach dropping low, twisting in thick knots and cutting into his gut he saw _it_ suddenly, vision clearing. He felt shattered and broken, a flimsy husk to be blown away by the wind. His throats soreness became only a simple ache, a minor nuisance as the panic settled into his blood like ice-water dousing the thin shell of his corporeal heart, unbeating. He became numb, a cold numb like being out too long in the snow, the flames of his iris stifled by his fever, his wounds- nay, those were none but trifles!- they were flooded by his realization.

For there, resting heavily on his Master, where above the snowflakes glistened nacreous, were two bright lights the unfiltered clarity of the Two Trees, forever entrapped. A pure, holy light, one of few things untouchable to Melkor. And they refracted crisp colour in their facets, a sparkle of pastels and vibrancy flanking the iron filigree of His crown. And in the centre, one gaping girdle in the middle, mighty frame of the crown- an empty cavern where the third Silmaril should be.

Mairon’s panic must have etched clearly on his face, as clearly as the missing light. Melkor’s unnaturally blue eyes twitched a moment as His Lieutenant looked up at Him in utter doom. His Maia closed his cerise-lined eyes once again, his lips pursed in frigid numbness like the heat had left him, the fright and the pain from the deep puncture wounds of canine teeth and Huan’s claw-scratches. He clenched his fists, dug his nails into his palm and a whistle Melkor heard from his parted pale lips: a strangled wheeze.

A sound like faltering wind, a hoarse scratching like the crunch of gravel or the groaning of wood as it splintered, and Melkor could not bear to listen, to look at pale lips meant to be crimson, at clammy skin once warm and brown like the cinnamon sticks he used for fragrance: at his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

And Melkor cut him off before his apology could begin, His angular face softening at the sight of His Little Flame in such unbearable pain. His eyes lost their polished hardness and yielded like mist to His Maia a soft, melting heather. His lips became not so pressed, the thin line broadening. His dark brows sympathetic and His gloved hand raised to gently tuck a sweat-soaked strand clinging to Mairon’s face behind the point of one upswept ear, softly shushing him with a murmur and the deep reverberation of baritone:

“Do not speak; there is no need.”

Mairon swallowed thickly, what felt like blood and ash, and pain trembled down his throat in choppy waves. He sobbed, voice breaking from his larynx in despair to see also now the newer, smaller scar crossed the others on his Master’s cheek from whence the broken blade of Angrist sliced Him. It was as if the blade's edge had caught _his_ skin and not Melkor’s, and the sound rung desperate in the chamber.

Yet still, Melkor stroked away the dampened hair- fiery locks a dulled orange like the decay of autumn leaves- pulled it from sickly flesh and smoothed it to his scalp. Any fury Melkor held in Him seemed now superficial, and now the lessened weight of His crown was not held against His Golden Maia, but rather, held bitterly and explosive against the elf-wench and her mutt.

But Mairon continued to stare up at Him, eyes pleading with broken focus, anguished to Melkor in apology and shame, and in crippling panic. But ever-gentle as the caressing breeze He bent, and tenderly His gloved thumb stroked over the small freckles on his gaunt cheeks, and like the wind between newborn blades of grass in Tuilë, Melkor pressed a small, chaste kiss to the bridge of his nose. Startled, Mairon did not pull back, but instead let out a gravelly, slurred, _“Melkor?”_ and watched with maturing surprise as He solemnly reached up and removed the iron crown from atop His head.

Melkor _ached,_ His entire body was sore and yelling with frayed nerves. The seven wounds of Fingolfin seared like fire, the claw marks of Thorondor left trails of clotted blood, His foot begged to limp, toes curled in forced contraction. His hands were charred and flaking black, and His blindness would have drove Him to a further, deeper madness then already He was falling, were it not patched over by Mairon’s own Fëa, so freely gifted. O! how He searched for Mairon so long a time after the fall of Taur-in-Gaurhoth, after Draugluin and Thuringwethil were slain, after Lúthien and Beren made off with His Silmaril. And now that He found him, all of His rage evaporated, disintegrated like it never had any substance at all, and was replaced only with the need to soothe and be soothed.

For long had it been since Mairon had met with Him in person, since last they touched. For he was busied commanding the pass of Gaurhoth and kept away from the routine of Angband, from his Master who hadn’t even realized how much He became dependent- and how loath He was to admit it! That He was nothing without him! His yearning for His Maia’s Fëa, unbound from his flesh to permeate Him, to sink into His pale flesh and into His world-weary bones. Now He felt it poignantly, felt Himself ashamed that Mairon should ever feel the need to hide from Him, to wither away in a filthy den of wolves and let his wound fester in shame than come to his Master- nay, his espoused- with rare words of defeat.

So Melkor, swallowing His own pride, and His own pain and shame, removed the heavy crown and set it aside like a forgotten relic, and, pushing aside the silken smoothness of His bed covers, He slid His way next to Mairon.

Once more, Mairon attempted to speak up at such treatment, but once more was silenced with a hush, and his Master settled back against the headboard upholstered in plush thread, and then He turned to better gaze down at His fallen Lieutenant, dazed and weak and ill. But already Melkor looked younger- unburdened- like He used to in the Years of the Lamps. His eyes were freed from some deep-set pain, and His smile came easy and its curve, gentle. His burdens rested instead on the night table with the iron crown, and in the hand of Beren.

But Mairon whimpered, and spoke not with his voice, but greatly strained his Fëa, still steeped in doubt. “I hath failed thee,” he trembled, “I hath, grave of error, failed thee!”

Melkor shook His head in dissent, fingers playing idly with his damp hair. “Thou hast lost the isle, but of it I think not, for thou hast been forgiven; forgiven indeed when first I heard of it, though of this forgiveness I knew not until now.”

At this confession, Mairon moved to speak, a rush of vehemence and a grating noise, but Melkor once more hushed him with a finger to his trembling lips, silk glove tracing silk lips, drained of flush.

“Hush now; didst I not tell thee to hold thy speech? Thou’st pain enough, I wouldst not see thee have more of it.”

And with this they sat in silence, and Mairon quivered at the thought of Melkor’s words, of forgiveness. He did not deserve such blessings- he deserved this humiliation, deserved the Vala’s heavy disappointment for his error. This was war, and they could not afford folly or mishaps, and Mairon’s unwavering loyalty and Fëa-bond only made himself the harsher. But Melkor’s gaze was soft like the shadows that held dear to His skin, and His Hröa, alike a mortal body, was warm with the rush of blood, and it was a balm to Mairon’s chilled cold. As such, he could not help but curl towards the Dark Vala for nourishment.

“Little flame,” Melkor sighed after a long moment of silence, carrying notes of tenderness, “Dost thou know the agony it was to wait for thee in those three ages of imprisonment?”

Mairon looked up at Melkor, his eyes strained to get a good, full view but finding His blue eyes nonetheless. The Maia felt stricken, thinking He was bringing up His imprisonment because of the three weeks He spent looking for Mairon in Taur-nu-Fuin. But Melkor shook His head again and continued:

“As I sat in Mandos, more often than of mine Empire I thought instead of thee, and it wast mine own great comfort to know that they had not caught thee- it was,” Melkor admitted, “Perhaps why I got through such maddening captivity.”

Mairon shuddered as Melkor played with the tip of his ear, swiping down to trace along the shell and join his cheekbone, following the sharp curve lovingly. He was lulled by that ancient voice, and overwhelmed by the secret trust of thought Melkor only ever shared with His second-in-command. Mairon reached up then, grabbing Melkor’s hand and holding onto it, massaging it lightly to free it- if only for a moment- from neverending pain.

“But in that time,” He continued, “I wast plagued, and I wast much ashamed to meet thee again, for I knew that I had failed thee utterly; that should anything come to thee in mine time away, it wouldst be mine own fault for having been sloppy: for being careless.”

“I wast angry at thee at first about Huan, and mine ire is not famed for naught, but-” Melkor added quickly, for Mairon paused in his ministrations and trembled not in fear (for Melkor would never strike him) but in shame.

“But, I didst recall that time in mine cell in Mandos, and how I came back to thee a mess of what I wast before; how thou didst not even hold any lingering anger for mine absence, how thou mended the Silmaril blindness and made for me these silken gloves to ease mine pain even thou I wast cruel to thee upon return.” Melkor spoke softly, His voice but a whisper; a waterfall of words.

“How true wouldst I be to thee, Beloved, if I blamed thee for one battle when I hath failed thee worse: an entire war? When it brings me secret joy to have thee back here, in Angband, to tend to thy Master moreso then tend to mine Empire? That I wouldst rather have thee here, in mine chambers plotting with me and commanding the forces of thine own Fortress than the remnants of Tol Sirion, so distant from thine regent?”

Mairon gazed up at Him and smiled at His words, and he shakily pulled on Melkor’s arm so that He slid down the plush headboard and rested instead like a cradle to his limp form. Having listened to his Master’s musings he forgot all of his pain and only felt the harrowing of Melkor’s, and Melkor wished only to tend to His Maia’s pain, thinking of how oft Mairon expertly tended to His own.

Gently Mairon willed it so that his last reservoir of energy washed out from his Fána with a burst of golden inferno, blazing hot but harmless. And gently he told Him that He never need fret, that he had never considered blaming Melkor for His capture. And Melkor felt much the same to Mairon’s failure in Taur-in-Gaurhoth, and nuzzled his hair as his fever broke and this fire-Maia was warmed again from the chilled cold of their Northern Kingdom.

Melkor sighed, His hands still clasped in His Lieutenant's, still massaged of their clamping pain. His lips found his pointed ear, and, faintly: “Thou art worth to me the most of the jewels of Arda, for thou art fairest in all of Eä, my Precious.”

And He smoothed the silken sheets around them, and surrounded him in the broadness of His shoulders, the tangle of His legs, and the warmth of His muscled arms until Mairon was engulfed and his senses filled with nothing but _Melkor._ And it seemed to the Vala that the weight of His wounds was lifted, and to the Maia that his throat was healed: and both found themselves forgiven without ever needing to be.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've actually had this written for a long time but never really felt like it was good enough to publish. . . but I decided that I should anyways :P  
> One thought I saw on tumblr (and I like to think of as headcanon) about Sauron fleeing from Lúthien/Huan was that he happened to see Gondolin on his flight across from Tol Sirion to Taur-nu-Fuin, but could never find the entrance to the city from the ground, thus Maeglin was still needed. Unfortunately, I didn't really fit this into the work but perhaps I will make a whole separate work about it with Maeglin (because I love him too :D).  
> ***


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